DYFS
by Simon920
Summary: Authorities question the Kinney's about their son's frequent injuries.


Title: DYFS

Author: Simon

Character: B

Rating: PG-13

Summary: someone tries to help a 15-year-old Brian

Warning: deals with child abuse

Disclaimers: These guys aren't mine, they don't belong to me, worst luck, so don't bother me.

Feedback: Hell, yes. 

Note: DYFS stands for the Department of Youth and Family Services and is one of the agencies that deal with child abuse. I, in no way, wish to slight their efforts or imply that they would allow an abusive situation to continue.

DYFS

**1987**

"Hello, Mrs. Kinney? My name is Jean Ludwig. I'm calling to see if it would be convenient for you and your husband to meet with me tomorrow afternoon to discuss your son, Brian."

"Has he done something?"

"I'm a case worker for DYFS. That's a division of the state's Child Services, Mrs. Kinney. Brian's guidance counselor, Betty Minor, has referred you to me. She's concerned about him."

"My husband works, MrsâLudwig. Afternoons aren't good for him."

"Would the evening be better? I could come to your home if that would be easier for you."

"Well, we're really quite busy this time of year, you know. Is this really necessary?"

"I'm afraid it is, Mrs. Kinney. There is some concern about Brian and I really need to speak to the both of you."

"Might I ask what this is about? Is he is trouble again?"

"No, nothing like that. Would this evening be all right? I'll see you about seven?"

"âYes, I suppose."

Brian walked in the front door around four that afternoon, hoping to avoid his mother. She was usually in the kitchen this time of day, either angry and making dinner or drunk and not making dinner. He went straight to the stairs, trying to make it to his room without her knowing that he was home.

He didn't succeed.

"Brian." The voice, as always, was quiet and devoid of any warmth at all. "Come in here."

Shit.

He went through the living room to the kitchen. She was there, just as he knew that she likely would be, and seemed fairly sober but really pissed about something. He tried to think what he had done this time, or hadn't doneâsomething.

"I had a call about you this morning from some nosy parker social worker. What have you done?"

"Nothing." He was standing in the doorway, not really in the room with her.

"Then why are they calling? Obviously you've done something."

He wracked his brain for an answer. He hadn't been in any fights, his grades were good, and he hadn't told any teachers to fuck off. That left the only other possibility—someone had called in a complaint. Shit.

Mrs. Novotny? She had threatened to plenty of times, but he didn't think that she would actually do it. She knew that there would be Hell to pay if the authorities were brought into it.

One of the neighbors? Nah. They didn't give a crap. They hadn't ever called the cops or come over even during the loudest fights. They wouldn't get involved.

Someone at school? Maybe. He never went to the nurse or anything stupid like that, but he'd caught the new gym teacher staring at some bruises a couple of times and he had even asked him if there was a problem of some kind. He'd said everything was fine.

He knew that Mrs. Minor had been asking him to see her for a couple of weeks, but he thought that it was about his 'attitude' or maybe some shit about college. She was an idiot so he'd blown her off.

"Honest to God, I haven't done anything."

"Well, she's coming over at seven, so you watch what you say." She fixed him with the look he was becoming so good at himself, the one that could freeze ice. "Your father will be furious when he hears about this."

He knew a threat when he heard one. He'd toe the line. He turned away and made it up to his room. Shit. Fuck. Pulling put his math book he tried to do some of the calculus problems hat had been assigned for tomorrow. Halfway through the first one, he realized that his hand was shaking too much to write legibly.

Fuck. This was going to be bad.

Some dumbass social worker was going to ask a bunch of questions and make out some useless report and then they would leave and he'd still be here with Jack and Jack would be pissed off.

Fuck. This was going to be bad.

And to make it even worse, even if the stupid social worker recommended that he be removed from his parents or something it wouldn't make things any better. He'd be sixteen in a couple of months and that was the age of majority in Pennsylvania. Better to just ride out the time then to get into some mess with the court system and foster care and all of that, at least until he was out of high school. Another year and a half and he could leave and have a place to go. His grades and his soccer were good enough that he'd be able to try for a scholarship, and then he'd go.

Yeah, shit, he'd looked into filing a complaint. There were times when it had seemed like a good idea, but—fuck—sure they sucked, but they were his parents.

They must love him a little. They must love him more than some paid for his room and board by the state foster family would.

They were his parents.

Jack hit him. OK. Well sometimes he beat the shit out of him and there had been a few broken ribs and more bruises than he could count. There had been the time his shoulder had been dislocated by that push down the stairs and black eyes were hard to hide. The time his hand had been held over the stove had been bad, but that had never been repeated. Old Joanie had been sorta freaked by that one and seemed to have made an impression on Jack. He hadn't done that again.

But still—they did feed him and clothe him. He had a room of his own and once in a while Jack would try to talk to him about girls. That was weird and he had thought about just telling his father that he was gay, but he knew that it would be really bad if he did—they must love him at least a little.

They didn't show it, but they must.

They were his parents.

Dinner was more strained than usual. Claire made some lame excuse about having to hit the library and Jack purposely stayed away from the booze. Joanie cleaned the kitchen and set out the cookies she had baked after Brian had gone upstairs that afternoon. It looked like a perfect family, if you didn't look too close.

He kept looking at the clock and that old movie, High Noon, flashed through his mind. Sheriff Gary Cooper watching the clock and knowing that at noon the bad guys would arrive to kill him out of revenge for sending him to jail.

Seven. They were all pretending that it was a normal evening, that they all sat around like this, Brian upstairs pretending to do homework, Jack sober and watching Dan Rather and Joanie hemming a curtain for the downstairs bathroom.

They heard the car pull up and the engine stop. A minute later the bell rang. Brian stared out the window of his room; feeling like an ax was about to drop on his neck. He heard the voices downstairs and knew that they were in the living room. He couldn't make out the words. After about forty-five minutes his mother called.

"Brian? Would you please come down here?"

As he got to the bottom of the stairs they all turned to look at him. He could see that his father was holding in his anger, but he wouldn't after the woman left. He knew that.

His mother looked both sad and angry that it was now known that she was a shitty mother.

"Brian, this is Mrs. Ludwig. She would like to speak with you."

"Mrs. Kinney, is there somewhere Brian and I could talk privately?"

The three Kinney's looked at one another; Brian was the one to break the deadlock. "We could go up to my room, I guess."

Two minutes later Brian was sitting on his bed and the woman was in his desk chair.

"My name is Jean Ludwig and I'm concerned about you. I know that this is awkward, Brian, but I want you to understand that the only reason that I'm here is to make sure that you're all right."

He didn't say anything to that.

"There are some people who care about you and who are worried for you."

He still didn't speak.

"Brian, I know that you're a very smart young man. You must realize that I'm here because someone filed a report about you. Some of your teachers have noticed that sometimes you seem to have bruises. They believe that someone might be hitting you."

He looked at his feet. He was his father. He loved him, even if he never said it, even if he called him names and told him that he was a worthless piece of shit, he was his father. He must love him. He shook his head no.

"Brian. Please. I'm trying to help you. If you're being abused, I can stop it. I can make sure that it doesn't happen again. Just tell me how you were injured and I can make sure that it doesn't happen again."

He shook his head, his eyes still down. "No one hits me. I just get banged up playing soccer. It's a rough game."

"I don't think that's where you're getting hurt and neither do your teachers. Mrs. Minor says that you've been avoiding her the past few weeks. She's noticed that you've had two black eyes in the last month. She's worried about you."

Silence.

"Do you ever get into fights at school? Are there other students who have attacked you or who try to bully you for some reason?"

He shook his head. No, not any more, not since he broke Jeff's fucking hand that time two years ago.

"I didn't think that would be it. You're tall and obviously strong and I know that you're smart. I'm sure that you can handle yourself around the other kids."

"She shouldn't be worried. Mrs. Minor, I mean. I'm fine. I have to play hard so that I can try out for a scholarship next year. Besides, some of the other players, some of the players on the other teams try to take me out because I'm the best on the team. I get sacked more than the others."

"I've spoken to some of your neighbors and they say that they often hear loud arguments from this house and they've seen you running out in the middle of the night as if you were trying to get away."

"That's bullshit."

"Mrs. Novotny has told me she believes that you're abused. She also told me that she's tended to some of your injuries and several times has taken you to the emergency room for stitches and to have broken ribs checked."

"I tripped down the stairs once."

"Brian, sweetie. I think that you're trying to protect the person or the people who hit you and that's the wrong thing to do. No one has the right to hit another, especially a child and legally that's what you are." She paused. "I can get you out of here. I can make it stop."

He was silent, thinking about what she was saying. Of course she was right. Shit, he knew that. Any moron would know that. Hitting a kid was wrong, it was illegal. He could probably have his father sent to jail for what he did and Joanie never lifted a finger to stop it.

"Brian. Please let me help you. I want to make it so you're never beaten again. I can do that, if you'll let me."

It was wrong and he hated them.

They were his parents and they must love him. He was shit and that was the problem.

He was worthless.

It was his fault.

"Brian?"

They were his parents.

"No one is abusing me. Everyone is assuming wrong. I'm fine. I love my parents and they love me and I want to stay here with them. I know that you think that you're helping, but really, I'm fine."

She sighed. Damn it all. She's almost had him. She could see the wheels turning; she had almost convinced him that she was on his side. She would do the report and she would make the follow up visits and send in her recommendations. She would ask Betty Minor and the school nurse to keep tabs on him. The gym teacher could see if there were any new injuries hidden by his clothes. By the time it was all analyzed, he would be sixteen and out of her responsibility.

Damn it. Damn it all to Hell. He was a smart kid and a tough one. He deserved better than the hand he'd been dealt by those shits downstairs. She's seen hundreds of families like them: all proper in their clean, neat respectable house. The kids were always dressed reasonably well and usually fed more or less regularly. But when the doors were closed and the liquor came out—she'd seen the loaded wet bar in the living room—then the shouting and the fights and the fists would start. It had probably been going on all his life.

And he was too young to know that it wasn't his fault.

It was a common story.

She took a card from her purse.

"If you want to talk, or if you need anything please call me. OK?" He nodded. She knew that he wouldn't.

Two hours later Brian was sleeping when his father opened his door. He was drunk and he picked up the bike lock that was hanging on the doorknob. It was the kind with a chain covered in a plastic tube.

After the tenth or so blow, he almost didn't feel them anymore. At about twenty, they stopped and Jack stumbled to his own bed.

Shaking, bleeding, he knew that this was one of the bad ones, one of the worst. He somehow made his way down the stairs and out the door. Barefoot and wearing just a pair of sweat pants, he didn't remember getting to Mikey's house or letting himself in the back door. He just knew that he was safe.

Debbie didn't cry as she took care of him and neither did he. They didn't talk, there was no point. They both knew.

It was his fault, he was shit.

They were his parents. He was nothing.

They must love him. They were his parents.

2/23/03

12


End file.
